


Auberge

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Series: Purgatory Pre-8 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no first-aid kits in Purgatory.  That's definitely a failing grade in one or two work safety inspections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auberge

**Author's Note:**

> Season 8, getting it all out before the Jossing. I didn't plan on a sequel to [The House That Dripped Blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/520865), it just … kind of happened?
> 
> For kink_bingo, "bloodplay." Full disclosure in the end notes.

Sometimes, Castiel feels like an angel again.

When he lands a solid punch that causes harm instead of breaking his fingers, he feels like a warrior. When he stakes a Shadow and feels its bone and cartilage giving under his strength, he feels like a soldier. When he puts himself between Dean and death, he feels like a guardian. Every fight they're in, every blow he strikes, he remembers.

But when the Shadows fall, souls stretched long upon the ground, the memories scatter like ashes on the wind.

Castiel rubs his cheek against his trenchcoat. The sleeve comes away dark with blood. Some of it is his. Most of it is theirs.

"Fuck," Dean spits, rolling a mangled corpse off of himself. It takes him three attempts to stand up, but Castiel doesn't offer to help. "I hate trolls," he complains further. "Hated 'em when they were _alive._ "

Castiel watches him stalk over to another body, pulling his battle axe out with effort. He's filthy, face and hands covered with red human blood. Every move he makes is clearly pained. Castiel wants to alleviate some of that — take away the fatigue, the hunger, the thirst — but there's no time now.

"We have to keep moving," he says. Before the souls re-manifest somewhere nearby, or before the sounds of their skirmish bring more unwanted guests. Castiel doesn't like fighting; wishes he didn't have to.

_— Commanded the Host of Heaven —_

He dismisses the memory. He has other business now.

"Always gotta keep moving," Dean grumbles, shouldering his axe and shuffling forward, radiating hostility. He's in a mood, Castiel realizes with a suppressed sigh. Nothing more pleasant than Purgatory seasoned with a grumpy Winchester.

Castiel doesn't answer. He falls into step behind Dean to make sure his charge doesn't lag. They're moving slowly, but they're moving.

"Where the hell is Benny?" Dean growls suddenly, glaring at Castiel over his shoulder.

He shrugs. It's a very human gesture — one he's been catching himself doing more often these days. "He'll be back when he's found something."

"And he took off when we got jumped by trolls?" Dean sounds suspicious. Rightly so, but options aren't a luxury in Purgatory and the three of them do have one common goal. Namely, getting _out_ of Purgatory. "My axe should find his _face_. Same way Ruby's knife found her _gut._ "

Castiel doesn't know Dean as well as Sam does, but he knows that this aggressive posturing is meant to deflect his attention from something else. So he watches carefully as they hike. Dean's favoring his left side, shoulders stiff with tension Castiel can see even through his jacket and two shirts. He wants to stop everything and take care of it, but they can't afford it now.

Around them, day is rolling into dusk.

***

"You know what I really miss?" Dean asks as Castiel is putting the finishing touches on their lean-to. "Beds."

"So you've said," Castiel replies, even though he knows Dean is talking just to talk.

"Have I?" Dean sounds puzzled, detached. "Huh."

Or not, Castiel amends with a inner wince. He stands, turns around and presses a hand to Dean's clammy, feverish forehead. It makes the hunter wince and flinch away. Castiel changes tactics, grabbing Dean's leather jacket and guiding him into the shelter.

"I'm sorry," he says once they're tucked into the darkness. "I wanted us to make some headway before we stopped."

"What're you apologizing for?" Dean slurs, out of commission now that he's horizontal. "I'm the one who got ya stranded in this shit-hole."

His Grace will wear off soon. If Castiel focuses, he can see its aura dimming. He doesn't bond them yet — he can't. "Wait here," he orders softly.

He backs out of the shelter, followed by Dean's confused _"Where'm gonna go?"_ They stopped for the night near running water, and while it may not contain any nutritional benefits, they've found it serves basic purposes quite well. He inches down to the rippling stream, reaching into his pockets. The strip of ripped plaid he pulls out is just one of the signs confirming that they aren't the first mortals to have visited Purgatory.

And of course, there's Benny. Wherever he is. Castiel sort of understands why Sam and Dean found his frequent disappearances so frustrating. Castiel soaks the makeshift rag in the frigid waters and heads back to the shelter.

Dean's right where he left him, jacket and button-down removed to be used as blankets. Castiel floats atop him, trench covering them both, and dabs at his friend's bloodied forehead. There's a shallow gash there, revealed when the flakes of dried blood are wiped away.

Balancing himself on his knees and one hand, Castiel wipes the blood and grime from Dean's cheeks. His green eyes are bright and glassy with fevered delusion — maybe the head-wound, maybe….

Dean yelps, shoving at Castiel's chest. Castiel allows the push, glancing down. His knee had accidentally pressed into Dean's injured side. Castiel mumbles an apology, pushing the black shirt up so he can inspect.

There's a gash here, too, thin and harsh and freshly oozing thanks to the aggravation. It's not nearly as bad as it could have been; Dean clearly feinted out of range to avoid the worst of it. It should heal well enough on its own. Still, Castiel's human chest aches. If Dean's reflexes weren't sound, if the beast had been better, if the slice had disemboweled him instead of catching the soft flesh between his ribs and waist when it grabbed him….

Castiel swallows, mouth suddenly very dry. Once, he could have willed this away. Once, he could have torn Dean apart and put him back together with delicate precision, from memory. He could have taken the pain away, closed the wound, soothed the fever.

He can do none of these things now. He wants to. No one will ever know how much he wants to.

"Cas?" Dean queries, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks concerned, and Castiel realizes how intently he's been staring at the wound.

Settling across Dean's denim-clad thighs, he shoves Dean back down with a hand on his chest. At least this will help, he reasons, and shares his Grace as he's been doing for months. He reaches deep inside and smoothes away the human discomfort, kisses Dean's soul with his own and tries not to notice the way Dean is grabbing desperately at his arm. Normally they would be— 

Castiel dips down, smelling the sweaty tang of copper and salt, and swipes his tongue across the gash. Above him, Dean gasps and his hips jerk involuntarily. It's not a pained sound, so Castiel licks again, cleaning the red stains around the wound. The air between them is still warm and bright with Grace; Castiel has to close his eyes against its shine.

"Cas," Dean is croaking, tugging at his sleeve. "Cas, Cas. _Cas._ "

Castiel crawls up, rearranging them so Dean's right leg is trapped between both of his. Dean doesn't look any more lucid than he did before, although now his eyes are glazed with euphoria, not fever. Castiel's gaze fixes on the cut on his forehead. It's mostly clotted again. A pearl of blood threatens to spill from its center; Castiel kisses it away.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks.

"No," Dean mumbles, eyes locked on Castiel's mouth. He wraps one hand around Castiel's neck and tries to pull him down.

"Dizziness?" Castiel inquires, ignoring the demand just so he can watch Dean's patience wither and die. "Nausea? Diplopia?"

"Christ," Dean says, and starts yanking at the trenchcoat.

Castiel cooperates with this, shrugging out of the coat and tossing it aside. He ducks Dean's hands, though, shimmying down until he's level with the cut. It's oozing again, Dean's life leaking out into Purgatory.

He laps it up in one long swipe. Dean's life is settling on his tongue even as more of it bleeds out. So he goes back for more — figures the safest place for Dean's blood is in him. He presses his tongue against the wound, forcing more blood out the other end. Dean groans, low and guttural, and he shifts restlessly. Intrigued, Castiel moves one hand to glide over Dean's crotch — and yes, he's aroused.

 _"Was it Hell?"_ he wants to ask, because only in Purgatory can you harken back to the simpler times of the Pit.

But he doesn't ask. He takes it for what it is, rubbing his palm against Dean's need and fastening his lips around the gash. He suckles, wrenching more blood from it, while Dean curses and bucks and begs.

He backs off only when Dean forgets himself and yells, before the hunter gives them away. He's got Dean's fingers twisted into his hair so he doesn't go far, licking his bloodied lips. His other hand is still rubbing Dean through his jeans, and Dean is still moving with it, like a lodestone.

The euphoria of his Grace has long since faded, but they both know it's just an excuse at this point.

Instead of climbing back up for mutual, desperate stroking, Castiel fusses with buckles and zippers and underwear. He combines human observations with angelic skill and swallows Dean down, holding his erection in place with one hand and keeping his hips planted to the ground with the other. Dean smells heady and musky and he tastes like bitter salt. Castiel decides he loves it. He loves the way Dean's breathing hitches, loves the way he's grabbing at the earth, pulling up grass in desperation.

It doesn't take long for Dean to finish. Castiel swallows it down because he can't think of a reason not to. It doesn't taste anything like his blood, but Castiel decides he wants to keep it, anyway.

"Holy fuck," Dean gasps as Castiel folds himself against the hunter's good side. "You just, you." He swallows. "Uh, do you want me to … should I…?"

He's reaching for it, but Castiel's erection is already gone so he takes Dean's dirty hand and squeezes it. The need to reciprocate is a decidedly human thing, he decides, watching Dean's face fall at the rejection. He suddenly wants to kiss the hurt away so he does, letting Dean taste his own blood and semen.

"Next time," he promises, plucking their makeshift rag from the dirt. "I still have to find a way to keep that wound closed all night."

He waits, holding Dean's gaze until he nods. Then Castiel leaves, walking the short distance to the stream without his trenchcoat. Dean's still keeping him warm from the inside out.

 

~End.

**Author's Note:**

> There is wound-licking and wound-teasing. Also, I haven't yet seen any good close-ups of Dean's new weapon. It looks like a wicked awesome cross between a battle axe and a short sword, but I don't know what you'd call it?


End file.
